Red, White and Blue
by DreamEscape1675
Summary: What does the Winter Soldier give to Steve for his birthday? Post CA:WS.


**Red, White and Blue**

**All characters belong to Marvel**

**I own nothing.**

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><p>Gray light streamed from the windows of guest bedroom, became entrapped in the depth of deep, temperate steel-blue eyes, the steadiness of his gaze became transfixed on the ridges of his metal knuckles; Bucky sat in stoic on the mattress, his legs tucked close to his chest and heavy, well-defined jaw resting securely on his knees.<p>

The shafts of outside light became milky crescents around the darkness of his pupils; he blinked against the strands of rich brown while focusing his dormant eyes on the dribbled lines of rain sloping down the glass panes of the window.

He was fighting against a severe memory lapse, struggling to regain a menagerie of images out of the crimson haze of Hydra's control. It was early morning and the streets were slick with the puddles of the heavy downpour; he was surrounded by silence and the droning echoes of traffic-tires splashing water on sidewalks outside Steve's downtown apartment. Bucky curled his slender frame against the wall, allowing the bare planes of his back to feel the coldness of the paint sear deep into his bones.

His eyes welled with smoldering tears; the memory of a distant life back on the streets of Brooklyn emerged from the dark crevices of his torture mind. The glimmers of a skinny and sickly Steve Rogers felt like jaded pieces scraping over the torrent fabrics of his wounded soul.

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><p><em>"I was wondering if you want anything for your birthday?" He asked in his savory Brooklyn accent, his dazzling blue eyes captured the afternoon sunlight caressing over his youthful chiseled cheekbones. They stood outside his apartment, leaning against the wooden rails of the balcony. "You haven't mentioned much to me...Do you want a new art book?"<em>

_"I don't want anything, Buck." Steve lowered his head, feeling the crippling grief of his mother's death tear him apart from the inside and out. He wilted his bony frame from the door and narrowed his stern turquoise embers at the collection of bruises etched over the ashen shaded flesh of his thin arm. He pulled out his sketchbook, staring at the tattered edges and smudges of dirt on the black cover, he parted his lips and expelled out a dismal sigh, "I don't even why I still draw -I'm not even a good artist."_

_Bucky shook his head, "That's not true, Steve." He spoke with an edge in his voice. He inched closer, looking at his best friend with pensive and sincere blue eyes, "You're one of the best in the city-you capture everything that those damn other artists rake off their work." He slacked the edges of his lips into a faint smile, making the distinctive lines of his jaw visible as he slightly narrowed his eyes, "I don't want you to throw away this dream-You need to make something of yourself and have a better life than the most of us, pal."_

_"No one believes in me, Buck." Steve replied petulantly, trying to muster up a serious demeanor with his throaty and strained voice-still wheezing against the fluid building in his lungs. He wanted to convince himself that the dream was dead. He clenched his lanky jaw and creased his brow as he stared intently at the handsome, daring and strong James Buchanan Barnes-he wanted to be just like his big and protective brother, instead of a weak and fragile smudge of his human existence._

_"That's not true," Bucky growled, his blue eyes burning like smoldering embers of fire. «You've got something that most guys wish they had... You've got spirit and determination and there is one person that believes in you, Rogers."_

_Steve furrowed his eyebrows, staring vacantly at his sketchbook, trying to reignite his passion for drawing, trying to become stronger and hold on to his dreams instead of using them as a tedious crutch to lean on when the world from him grew darker."I can't live a normal life, Buck... I don't know how much time I have to live anyways."_

_"Stop giving up on yourself... You are becoming stronger every day, Hell, you made for your eighteenth birthday." Bucky wandered in his glistening blue embers sweeping over the wooded boards under his feet modestly..._

_"I don't need another lecture," Steve whimpered timidly, feeling his rib cage constrict as he breathed out a deep exhale of air. He clamped his eyes shut, pressing a small fist into the center of his chest-Bucky had always been like a protective grizzly bear to him-always showing him the ropes of surviving and how to fend for new opportunities-even when he watched his friend try to bury the pain beneath the layers of confidence, warmth and resilience._

_"Steve..." Bucky drawled, in a scarce whisper, casually stuffing his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. He wrenched his head to the side, biting down on his lip with his lazy Cupid's bow as he fell silent for a long moment-his face morphed into a sullen expression and eyes leaked with fresh tears almost like he had been poked in the chest by a spear, grinding against his bones. He cocky and charismatic semblance was peeling off and unraveling into a tender and almost abashed face of a genuine friend._

_"Buck... I need you to stop thinking that I'll make it." Steve sniveled, pressing his back against the door. His deep blue eyes grew cold and filled with remorse as he looked at his art book. "I'm nothing... I'm just a skinny nobody with broken dreams." He allowed the book to slip out of his fingers and fall on the boards. "A failure."_

_Bucky locked his intent, benevolent azure colored eyes on his friend's sorrow-stricken face, he could the concealed grief and the torment behind the golden strands of hair shrouding over his teary eyes, as deep anguish seated like craved stone on his pale, delicate features._

_"You see..." He replied in a quiet, serene voice, crouching down, scooping up the book. He extended his hand out to Steve. "You're only a failure if you believe yourself to be... Just like if you believed you were strong when the doctors injected, you with all those needles at the hospital."_

_Steve sighed out an abysmal breath and recovered the book from Bucky's hand. "Thank you, Buck." he dejected, sliding the art book in the pocket of his jacket. "I'm sorry for the way I've been acting." He flicked his eyes down, and heaved out a labored breath. "I know you're just trying to look out for me..."_

_Bucky gave him a broken smile, his full lips curved slightly up, his eyes snapped down as he fought to release the tears building against his eyelids. «I'm here for you, pal." He managed with a crack in his voice, his face breaking into a soft, light-hearted expression. "I'm always going to be here. Just because you look weak to everyone else doesn't mean that you're not strong to me." He lifted his head, his blue eyes shining with tears that had fallen over the chiseled lines of his broad cheeks. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a small box rubbed with newspaper and twine. 'Here you go, punk."_

_"Buck, I told you not to get me anything."_

_"Since when do I ever listen to you," Bucky smirked, as a tearful laugh surpassed over his lips. His face brightened as he watched Steve open the birthday gift and stare at the red, white and blue tin pencil case with engraved images of the American flag on the cover. "Yeah, I know it's not much... But I knew you would like it."_

_Steve swallowed, and opened the tin case, his blue eyes widened at the beautiful set of graphite pencils; sharpener and white gum parted his sealed lips, speechless, not wanting to meet Bucky's eyes. "How-how did you manage to find this in Brooklyn?" he asked, his voice muffled and curious._

_"Hey," Bucky answered with a crooked, defiant smirk. "I get around-besides it wasn't that expensive. A few dollars tops... but the important thing is, Steve. You deserve it. And... Well, that's all that matters to this Brooklyn kid." He stepped forward and placed his hand over Steve's bony shoulder with a firm grip, his eyes were clear and brilliant blue as he curled his lips into his signature smirk and lightly jerked Steve. "Happy Birthday, pal."_

_"Thank you, Bucky," Steve gave him a lopsided smirk, sniffling a little as he looked at Bucky straight in the eye, smiled and felt a brush of confidence enter through him, just a small amount. He'd felt little stronger because his best friend believed in him. "Now, all we need is..."_

_"Cake..."Bucky whispered back to him, smiling, as he playfully messed up Steve's, short golden locks into a rat's nest. "__I've already got that covered, Steve."_

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><p>After splashing cold water on his face, Bucky awakened from the memory, and crouched down in front of a studio desk, pulling out a drawer, his blue eyes, light lit as he stared at the tubes of paint neatly placed in a row with fresh brushes and sheets of paper.<p>

Carefully, he grabbed all the supplies, sticking a paint brush over his plump bottom lips as he bit lightly down on it while laying the paper on the floor, He twisted the plastic caps off with his metal fingers, his enhanced strength accidentally squeezed the red paint over his graven chest, making the liquid to run over the grooves of his firm pectorals.

He cursed in Russian under his breath, and wiped the splotches of paint with his fingers-chewed on the end of the brush while planning out his design, and then poured a gob of blue paint on the coffee can lid-making it splatter over his chin.

"Ugh," he grumbled out a dark, frustrated breath, and then used the back of his metal hand to swipe off the paint not realizing that more paint spread over his cheeks and the point of his nose. He clenched his jaw, gritting his teeth as he squeezed in the tube of paint, dropping gobs on the floor and over the muscles of his compacted of his firm and engraved abdomen. His jeans were covered with stains.

Glaring intensely at the smudges of red paint, he dabbed the brush and began to lightly stoke it over the paper and wrote out the letters of Happy Birthday in red, and then he dabbed the other brush into the blue and stroked it over the paper creating a big 'S' as he wrote out 'Steve'. After staining his jeans with specs of red and blue, he highlighted the fancy lettering with white. He felt the edges of his lips curved up into a tiny smirk as he continued working on his masterpiece.

Bucky spared a glance at his bionic metal arm, staring intently at the shape of the red star with his luminous blue eyes and used the brush to create the same symbol on the paper, followed by a deep blue and a small white one in the middle-colors of the American flag_—_Captain America.

Abruptly, he acutely heard the apartment door open, "Dammit," he heaved out a curse, instantly he threw everything back in the drawer and straightened up to his feet.

He reached down to grab the sheet of paper; but then froze as his muscles coiled and bones became rigid. He felt Steve's turquoise blue eyes latched on to him. He bit down on his lip, involuntarily turned around and met his best friend's intense gaze.

"What?" he growled, raking his metal fingers through his wild strands of hair. He folded his arms over his chest and glared at darkly at the tall presence in the doorway. Every muscle of his body was slick and wet from the stale summer heat emanating from the walls. He grimaced as he felt the paint roll over his tight and glazed muscles, but underneath the drenched bangs his blue eyes hooded with shadow as they glinted in the sunlight. "Steve, do you know what day it is?"

"I know its Independence Day." Steve replied wistfully as he pressed his bulky and muscular frame against the door frame. He was dressed in a light blue shirt with the Avengers logo printed in the middle and jeans, His curled fingers clutched two plastic bags filled with cereal boxes, a can of coffee, fruit and a bag of milk. He knitted his golden eyebrows together and stared at the mess of paint on the guest room's floor.

He lifted his eyes up and stared at Bucky Barnes -his slender and tone sculpted muscles covered with smears of red, white and blue, his dark, disheveled chestnut chin length hair highlighted with paint, the strong cleft chin had smudges of white which had streaked to his throat. His charcoal jeans which fitted snug around his craved midsection were bombarded by specs of paint.

"Buck..." Steve said in a breathless tone, easing the bags to the floor. "What happened in here?"

"Painting... I was painting," Bucky resentfully replied, glowering at the tubes of paint with a savage gleam in his feral blue eyes. "I wanted to make something special for you, Steve." He groused, advancing forward, in methodical strides and handed the first Avenger his birthday gift. "I know it's your birthday... I remember the date." He said, rubbing his metal arm and morphing his lips into a sulky frown. "You were born on July 4, 1920."

Steve pressed his lips into a tight line; he nodded and looked firmly with glistening blue pools with bewildered silence at the painting Bucky created for him. "Buck, you made this for me?" he asked, staring at the three stars around his name. "You actually painted this?"

"Yeah," he replied with a monosyllabic tone, his voice breaking. He narrowed his eyes down to the floor. "I didn't want to leave you empty handed..." He creased his brow, sealing his lips shut for a second. "I remember I used to surprise you with a gift every birthday. I did not want our old tradition to die out."

"Thank you, Buck." Steve took a deep breath, cautiously stretched out his hand, his fingers gripped over Bucky's tensed shoulder. "I didn't want anything... Just having you back," He lowered his head, feeling a tug on his heart strings, almost choking up his words. "That is the best gift that I received in a long time, my friend."

Bucky withdrew a step back, rubbing his metal arm. His muscles started to ache as he forced himself to loosen up, setting his jaw down, and then without any thought he lunged at Steve and wrapped his arms around his friend into a constricting, brotherly hug as he felt his heart squeeze, clenching and constricting as he held Steve tighter and dug his face into his shoulder. "Thank you, Steve."

"For what, pal?" Steve asked with a dumbfounded expression slapped onto his face.

The rogue and lethal assassin lifted his head upwards with glistening blue eyes, "For believing in me." He answered with a tad of a smile crossing over his lips.

Steve closed his eyes, holding his friend close and protectively"What are friends for, jerk."

Bucky's smile grew wider, stretching further across his sharp cheekbones. He lightly punched Steve in the arm and whispered, "Happy Birthday, Cap... I mean... Punk."


End file.
